Genesis
by SongoftheDarquePhoenix
Summary: You are fourteen years old. You have never believed in ghosts- and now you are one.


**_Genesis_**

**_By: Song_**

_Summary: You are fourteen years old. You have never believed in ghosts- and now you are one._

_A/U: I read a fantastic fic done in second person in one of my other fandoms- so I wrote one myself! That was fun.  
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_Oh, and I should note, this is my fiftieth (50th) post.  
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**Review!**

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Why are you doing this? You know you shouldn't. There was a _reason_ the lab was off-limits. Your rebellious teenager surfaces. You've always wanted to check out the portal. What could go wrong? Its not like your parents ever _succeed_ with their inventions. Its not like they could make anything actually_ dangerous_ with their crack-pot inventions and paranormal theories.

You look around spotting a hazmat suit. Its in your size. You put it on, _just to be safe_. The portal is dark and metallic, going back a number of feet before dissolving into solid shadow.

Slowly, carefully as to not make a sound you step into the portal. Its dark, and you can't see where your going. Something snatches at your feet, and you fall, flailing your arms to catch your balance.

Something goes wrong.

A switch is triggered beneath your outstretched hand. Light, blinding flashes around you, through you-

and you learn the meaning of pain.

You are fourteen years old. You have never seen death before, and now you're experiencing it. At least, that's what you think. You have no other explanation. You've never felt such agony before. Its like your soul is being ripped apart, and you're only watching, helpless to do anything. Its like a thousand lives being eradicated from the face of the earth in one radioactive Armageddon. Its like being beaten by the local bully Dash Baxter and his gang, intensified a million fold. Its like your very _molecules_ are being rearranged, bathed in burning acid and injected back into your body.

Its like dying.

Or, at least, that's what you think.

And then... its over.

Relief.

Is it gone? Was it even real in the first place? You question this. You question your sanity. You question your very existence.

You stumble the breath stolen from your body by your yet unconfirmed mortality. Your knees buckle, you gasp and fall to the floor.

A voice is speaking to you, but you can't make out the words. It (she?) seems worried. You can't tell for sure. Your body has begun to throb as you grit your teeth trying to sort through muddled thoughts and phantom pain. You blink. Why is everything so bright? Raising a gloved hand to your face you rub at your eyes.

Wasn't that _black_ before?

As soon as the thought crosses your mind the glove vanishes. Now you can see your bones.

Was that normal?

Agonizingly you crawl to the bathroom adjoining the lab. You empty the contents of you stomach as cold sweat drenches your body. You are vaguely aware as someone rubs comforting circles on your back as you kneel, wrenching into the toilet. Trembling you stand leaning heavily into the body next to you. It takes a few moments but you muster enough strength to look at yourself in the small bathroom mirror.

Sam Manson hovers beside you, face pale, violet eyes wide with worry. Tucker Foley stands behind you, ready to catch you if you fall.

The face that's staring back at you however, is not your own. There is no mussed black hair a top your head. It is as white as a ghost. Next you notice your eyes. Gone are the baby blues that you had known your whole life- replaced by a vibrant green. Your face us paler than you've ever seen it- almost translucent. A slight glow pulsates around your form.

From the back of your mind some of the emergency procedures that you parents had drilled into you in case of an accident surface.

It is only then you realize you aren't breathing.

"Sam," you say. "Can you check my pulse?" Your hands are shaking too much to do so yourself.

Her hands steady she takes your wrist. "You're so cold..." she trails off, closing her eyes to better concentrate. Repositioning her fingers she searches for a pulse, again. This repeats a number of times, before she places the same two fingers on your neck.

"Danny," she whispers. "I can't find a pulse."

"Dude... I think you died." Tucker states as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. He pales as the realization hits him. "Dear god, I just watched my best friend die. I just saw my best friend _die _and I couldn't do anything about it. My best friend is dead. My best friend is dead..." He sinks to the floor, repeating the mantra again and again.

"Then... why am I still here?" Your voice echoes slightly as you look to your friends for answers that they don't have.

You are fourteen years old. You have never believed in ghosts- and now you are one.

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Fin


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